


Bane 007: Inherited Peril

by damnata



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alec is a Bond Girl, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Dubious humour, Eventual Smut, Guns, How Do I Tag, Last time I saw a Bond movie was five years ago, M/M, MI6 agent Magnus Bane, Sharing a Bed, Spies & Secret Agents, other weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnata/pseuds/damnata
Summary: Alexander Gideon Lightwood. Age 23. A whopping 6 feet and 3 inches tall. A former student at NYU specializing in finance and economics. Formerly engaged to Miss Lydia Branwell, heiress of the Branwell Inc. Last seen two months ago in his family home in Manhattan.Also, in Magnus´ humble opinion, a total babe.There were approximately nine million people in New York, give or take, many of them unaccounted for and even more of them forgotten. Magnus fully intended to use everything at his disposal to find a man on the run in the most restless city on earth.





	1. Prologue

“I thought I was an agent, not a babysitter,” Magnus said dryly once Ragnor had finished briefing him about his new mission, one that would take him to New York. 

Magnus sighed deeply and stared out of the huge glass windows of the MI6 headquarters that looked down on the foggy London streets. If he concentrated, Magnus could see the dark stain of Thames through the fog, and the tower of Big Ben next to it. Even further, the Shard and the Gherkin broke through the thick layer of smog – one of them round and the other a tall sharp construction. Both of them equally ugly and unfitting for London´s historic elegance. 

Truth be told, he liked the idea of returning to New York, had loved the city since he first set foot in it. He liked the shroud of anonymity the city so effortlessly provided, the blinding glare of neon lights that permitted him to work in the shadows, the utter self-importance of people too busy with their own lives to spare a glance at others. 

He had once loved London too, had suffered its sharp rains and cold stone as long as Camille´s smile had broken through the endless grey like the rare rays of sun during the bitter winter. 

But the winter sun is cold, and Camille´s smiles had been a lie. 

She now smiled at someone else. 

He moodily swirled the liquid in his glass. Ragnor always knew to keep some gin and vermouth in his office for him even though he had cut back to strictly social drinking after a rough patch had left him with shaking hands that had almost cost him his life and his mission. He still felt comforted by the weight of the glass in his hand as he by habit twirled the delicate stem between his fingers or dragged the tips of them through the cold condensation that gathered on the surface. 

It had taken a while to gain back Ragnor´s trust and an escort mission felt like a demotion. 

“You are an agent Magnus, and one of our best. That´s why I´m trusting you with this mission. The target was reported as missing by his family two months ago. I need you to find him and bring him to England in one piece,” Ragnor said placatingly. 

“If he is missing, then maybe the NYPD would be better suited for this job, don´t you think?” 

“Are you familiar with Lord Maxwell Trueblood,” Ragnor asked, choosing to ignore Magnus´ special brand of snottiness. “The heir of the Trueblood estate and all of its holdings?” 

“Of course, they are the third wealthiest family in England. The Truebloods donate vast amounts of money to the Q Division annually.” 

“That´s why this mission is hitting a little closer to home,” Ragnor said gravely. “Maxwell Trueblood was murdered during your latest case and, as he has no issue, the terminally ill Lord Adam Trueblood has named the eldest son of his only remaining child, his daughter Maryse Lightwood, as the sole heir of his title.” 

“Lightwood. . .” Magnus said, rising from his seat to take another look at the file laid open on Ragnor´s table. 

“Lightwood, as in Alexander Lightwood, your babysitting mission,” Ragnor confirmed with unnecessary air quotes. “He is being actively pursued by the terrorist group The Circle, led by Valentine Morgenstern. The Circle is trying to contact Mr. Lightwood in order to persuade him to join their cause or, in case that doesn´t work, to kill him and move on to his sister. However, Isabelle Lightwood is already secured and under surveillance by agent 009 Raphael Santiago.” 

Magnus hummed. Raphael was a good agent that had interned under him on a mission in Sydney. Things had gone wrong during the mission (as per usual) and they had ended up lost in the outback where Magnus had been bitten by one of the million things that could kill them. Raphael had sighed, hissed and cursed through assembling a homing device out of the scraps of their broken phones and an Apple watch with a busted battery, somehow alerting the MI6 and calling for help. 

Or so Raphael had said as Magnus had no memory of any of it, what with being delirious from venom and dying and all. It was more probable that Raphael just happened upon one of the three people going through the area that year and had asked to borrow a phone. 

“What about the parents,” he asked. 

“Agent 012 Sebastian Verlac is working to keep an eye on both of the parents. As Mrs. Lightwood is estranged from the family due to personal reasons, both her and her husband are not considered to be priorities as Mr. Trueblood has made no mention of either of them in his will.” Ragnor replied. 

Magnus didn´t recognize the name. Agent 012 must have been a new addition to the MI6. 

“I need you to find Mr. Lightwood before Valentine does and bring both him and Miss Lightwood to London so we can set them up with proper security. I´m afraid that if Valentine fails to get either of them to join The Circle, he will simply settle on terminating their bloodline in order to cut off our funding.” 

Ragnor´s voice was tired, cracking here and there, something very uncharacteristic for him. The man had been the force of the MI6 ever since he took over, leading the agents with a firm, yet kind hand, resulting in one of the highest numbers of completed missions under a leader´s name. All of the agents trusted Ragnor and believed in him, mainly because of his calm demeanour and unwavering image. 

Magnus looked at Ragnor, taking in the dark circles under his red-tinted eyes and the way that his grey hair, usually gelled in place, seemed to be dishevelled as if he had run his hand through it multiple times. His suit jacket was rumpled, the tie crooked and a poor choice at that. There was a subtle scent of cherry tobacco in the air. 

Magnus had been so sure of his leader´s authority that he hadn´t noticed the signs of stress. 

The Truebloods had been their main benefactors for generations, aiding the MI6 in developing the latest software and in acquiring both weaponry and protection gear for the agents as well as diamonds and antiquities that were in some cases needed to trade valuable information. The government did fund the secret service, but, as with any other government-funded institutions, it was never really enough. 

The Truebloods had saved hundreds, if not thousands of people through the MI6 and their agents. Without their ongoing support, they wouldn´t be half as effective as they were now. 

Staring down at the open file, his fingertips resting on the glossy photo of his target, Magnus memorized the face of the man he was going to find and protect with his life. Big hazel eyes stared back at him from under dark and heavy, yet delicately arched, eyebrows that were pulled together in dismay, a vertical scar running through the left one. Long and straight nose without any noticeable characteristics above well-shaped lips, the bottom lip slightly larger than the top. His sharp jawline and the upper part his long neck were covered by a light stubble that Magnus suspected could be grown into a full beard and therefore obscure some of his facial features. The shoulders muscular, giving off that the man was probably athletic in form and took part in sports or was a frequent visitor at a gym. 

Alexander Gideon Lightwood. Age 23. A whopping 6 feet and 3 inches tall. A former student at NYU specializing in finance and economics. Formerly engaged to Miss Lydia Branwell, heiress of the Branwell Inc. Last seen two months ago in his family home in Manhattan. 

Also, in Magnus´ humble opinion, a total babe. 

There were approximately nine million people in New York, give or take, many of them unaccounted for and even more of them forgotten. Magnus fully intended to use everything at his disposal to find a man on the run in the most restless city on earth. 

“Alright,” he said to Ragnor, making his agreement known. ”Have the NYPD on a lookout for a John Doe that matches the description of Mr. Lightwood. Just as a precaution.” 

“I´m your boss, Magnus, not a green agent on his first mission,” Ragnor huffed “I´m already in contact with Sergeant Luke Garroway and Coroner Catarina Loss. The NYPD will assist you with this case.” 

Magnus smiled. He had worked with Luke and Catarina before, they were both efficient and reliable at their jobs, not to mention great friends and confidantes outside of it. After his break up with Camille, Magnus had escaped to New York for a week and was now forever indebted to Catarina for handling his drunken stupor as well as she had. They still facetimed regularly, intent in keeping their friendship strong even if it was made difficult by the distance between them. 

“Great!” Magnus placed his martini glass delicately on Ragnor´s large wooden desk, trying to balance it between stacks of books, mission reports, and miniature figurines of cats. “When do I leave?” 

“Your plane will be ready tomorrow morning at 8 AM sharp but I expect you to visit the Q Division before your departure.” Ragnor snatched the still-full glass off his desk before it could topple over. “Miss Roberts has some new things to show you.” 

Magnus groaned slightly over the early start. He adored Maia but the other brainiacs tended to swarm and chatter about technological this and that until he, a fearless agent and notorious smooth-talker, felt the need to retreat and hide. 

“I must also stress,” his boss continued, his mouth slanting in an uneasy grimace. “That due to Mr. Lightwood´s importance to our operations, he needs to not only be protected but also thoroughly persuaded to join our cause. 

“Not to worry, my dear,” Magnus turned to leave but not before shooting a grin over his shoulder. “You know full well how charming I can be!” 

“I DIDN´T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!” Ragnor tried to yell after him but was cut off by the resolute click of his office door closing. He heavily slumped back into his chair. Magnus was their best agent and he loved the kid like a son but he was also a relentless flirt and Ragnor very much preferred not to repeat the tiresome two weeks after a mission to Russia that had resulted in a very angry daughter of an oil tycoon harassing his phone line with foreign obscenities. 

Barely a few seconds passed before his office door swung open again and Magnus´ head poked through the doorway. 

“Hey boss,” he asked with a smug grin. “License to kill?” 

“Yes, agent 007,” Ragnor replied, dragging a weary hand over his face. “You have a license to kill. Good luck with your mission.” 

“Neat!” Magnus said and disappeared.


	2. Hiding In Plain Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for my darling girl @Carmenlire for suffering through editing with me.

It was close to 2 AM and Pandemonium showed no signs of stopping. Alec had been on his shift for seven hours now, serving countless drinks to a crowd that was growing steadily more intoxicated as time went on, their bodies moving together under the colourful strobe lights like a nest of snakes, their chests rising and falling to the rhythm of the beat.

The club had grown into one of the biggest hotspots in Brooklyn, promising a night of uninhibited fun for anyone willing to pay the pricey entrance fee. It had once been a warehouse before it was abandoned, bought and renovated into an expensive nightclub with two floors, a lounge and three bars working at the same time.

Alec found everything about the club grating, from the weird interior design consisting of old metal pipes and iron railings mixed with glittering chandeliers and plush leather sofas to the music that tried a little too hard to be the darker side of techno trance. The only feature of the club he perhaps enjoyed were the black walls that kept the whole club shrouded in alluring anonymity even with the multicolour lights hitting the chandeliers, covering everything on their path with small rainbow fragments.

He finished another round of layered shots, loading them on a slightly sticky silver tray before handing the thing over to a waitress wearing little more than neon underwear and body paint. Pandemonium didn´t serve beer, as it was too boring for a sophisticated club like this, and no one asked for it. Instead, the crowd rallied for endless orders of colourful mixes that made one lose their inhibitions fast and made perfect excuses for the mistakes they realised they had made come morning.

Another note of new drink orders was slid over to him and Alec turned to give Clary a quick nod. They had worked out a wordless system of cohabitation behind the bar. The music was too loud for either of them to bother to speak over it as it would only end in sore throats and incorrect orders.

Alec pinned the orders to the edge of the bar, rolling his shoulders quickly to get rid of some of the tension before he grabbed the bottles needed for a dozen Screaming Orgasms and two martinis. He frowned at the delicate glasses, knowing that they´d just end up trashed on the floor and trampled over by the maddened crowd. Alec knew for a fact that the glassware alone cost Pandemonium close to a grand a month.

Getting to work on the shots, Alec let his hips sway to the beat as he moved through the motions, flexing his biceps just right as his palm slid over the bottle. He could feel the dozens of pairs of hungry eyes staring at him intently and he didn´t mind, as long as it ended with a full tip jar by the end of the night. Alec knew by now how to turn just right to make his shirt ride up a little, to bend over for the things stored on the lower shelves instead of awkwardly crouching. He had learned to move smoothly, to dress nicely, to shoot a lazy smirk to a patron and make them feel blessed to have been serviced by him.

He made serving drinks at a bar, as well as himself, a spectacle because everything in Pandemonium was for show.

A far cry from how he had started, as he´d had to lie through his teeth to get the job but Malcolm Fade was one of the only employers who were willing to look past his slowly healing black eye and the split lip he kept constantly opening by nervously biting at it. Fade had figured out Alec´s real identity within a week but promised to keep his mouth shut as long as he took care of the bookkeeping for free.

It wasn´t ideal but it was better than nothing.

The song changed and the crowd screamed, many of the patrons hoping for a drink instead turning to the floor to dance along to this week´s biggest hit, giving Alec and Clary a few minutes to breathe. As soon as he finished the order, Alec signalled to Clary that he was going to the back to take his five minutes. Clary accepted easily, showing him two thumbs up before leaning on the bar to yell something at a customer, opportunistically showing off her cleavage.

The corridor at the back was dark and quiet, smelling faintly of spilt alcohol, cigarette smoke and dust. Alec grabbed his leather jacket from his locker in the break room that consisted of the bare necessities such as a couch, a microwave and a sink before heading for the back entrance and stepping into the alley.

Fishing for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, Alec revelled in the frigid November air that was miles different than the hot humidity inside the club. He pressed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it and taking a deep drag as he leaned back against the brick wall before he exhaled the smoke, watching the odd frail snowflake falling from the sky.

He should call Isabelle soon, let her know that he was alive and kicking so she could bestow the information to his mother without giving away any clues as to where he was.

Alec finished his cigarette in quiet contemplation, feeling the activity eat away at least part of his stress. The five minutes were over too soon and Alec returned inside, stowing away his jacket before slipping back behind the bar with a smile. He wondered if he could talk Clary into sneaking a shot or two before their shift was done.

“What can I get you,” he asked the first guy vying for his attention, plastering a lazy smirk on his lips as he leaned over the bar to be able to hear him. The man was fairly attractive, Alec had to admit, in a boyish, naive way with eager blue eyes and curling blonde hair. He wasn´t exactly Alec´s type, as he had always gravitated towards darker features that promised danger and excitement.

Still, he played along, making a show of pulling at the neck of his shirt absentmindedly and delighting at the way the guy´s eyes landed on his chest, widening in interest.

“Uh. . . tequila,” The guy blurted nervously. ”Two tequilas. . . please!”

“You look a bit young to be in a place like this,” Alec said, not unkindly. “I´m afraid I´ll have to ask for an ID.”

The drinking law was perhaps the only one Pandemonium took seriously.

The boy fumbled, reaching for his wallet stored in the pocket of his too tight jeans before ripping open the velcro and retrieving his ID, presenting it to Alec proudly. Alec cringed internally.

He gave a cursory glance at the photo and the date of birth, not caring for a name in the slightest.

“Happy birthday,” Alec said, sliding the card back to the guy and turning to reach for a bottle with a funny red sombrero for a cap. He quickly poured the shots, placing them on a small dish and adding slices of lemon and a small pile of salt next to it.

Placing them in front of the young customer, Alec was about to turn to another one, only to be stopped by the same guy tapping him on the shoulder awkwardly.

“I´ve never taken a shot of tequila before,” he yelled, pointing at the two glasses. Alec was quite sure he had never taken a shot of anything except a vaccine in his life. “Will you take one with me?”

_Fuck yes_ , Alec said internally.

“Sure,” he said to the guy in disinterest. “Let´s get you your training wheels.”

He licked the space between his thumb and index finger of his left hand, making sure to keep eye contact with the blond, before sprinkling salt on it, pleased when the guy followed his lead.

“You have to lick the salt first,” he explained, reaching for one of the shots on the dish. “Then you down the tequila and finish with the lemon.”

Alec went first, impatient to return to hustling the crowd before the bar clamouring for his attention but the guy was sweet enough for Alec to humour him. The alcohol went down smoothly, the salt taking off the burn. Slamming down the shot glass, Alec reached for a wedge of lemon, pressing it between his lips and biting down quickly so the acid could wash away the lingering taste of tequila.

He smiled as the blonde coughed at the burn, staring at him with watering eyes as if Alec had personally betrayed him.

“It will get better,” he comforted him, reaching out to give a firm pat on his shoulder before resolutely moving on to the next customer.

It went on much the same for the next few hours, Alec and Clary serving drinks in the back bar in between taking a few short breaks here and there. They moved together comfortably, side-stepping each other in an effortless dance that came from working long hours together, sliding or throwing both bottles and equipment to one another and serving the customers quickly and efficiently.

Alec´s good work ethic was one of the reasons his boss didn´t bother him with prying into his past, rather leaving him be as long as he kept bringing in the money.

It was close to the break of dawn when Alec and Clary finally found themselves alone at the bar. The music had been cut off, the crowd of roaringly drunk partygoers ushered out and the blinding lights turned off so that both of the bartenders were working under the warm glow of a single light bulb hanging above them.

“It was a good night tonight,” Clary said as she stood behind the cash register, counting the money while Alec was busy sweeping down the bar with a wet rag.

Alec only hummed in response, knowing that Clary would keep talking without any response.

“We brought in close to twelve grand, boss is bound to give us a bonus soon enough.” She continued, tying off the stacks of money with a rubber tie before placing them carefully in the safe under the bar so their boss could collect it whenever he rolled into work.

_That would be welcome_ , Alec thought. While he wasn´t exactly penniless, he would appreciate a small extra to his income as it was steadily growing colder and he needed to invest in some winter clothing as well as pay the rent due in two weeks.

“How´s the tip today,” he asked, moving on to collecting the shakers, tongs and strainers laying about and dropping them off in the sink, washing them with hot water.

“Also good,” Clary chirped, pushing her long red hair away from her face as she took the cleaned equipment from Alec to dry them. “A hundred and fifty for each of us as well as sixty for the cleaning crew.”

A hundred and fifty, not bad at all. He would put half of it aside as he usually did with his tip and the other half would keep him fed until his next shift in two days.

“Are you working tomorrow,” he asked Clary.

“Nope, I have two days off so I can study for an exam. Also, boss mentioned something about keeping us in the same shift so I figure our schedules are going to match anyway. I think he is going to fire Christian soon, he and Bat can´t keep up with the demand in front bar which makes it harder on us and the upstairs lounge.”

Alec cringed. Workplace drama was something he tried his best to avoid.

“Hey, James,” Clary asked suddenly. “Is it cool if I add you on Facebook? I mean we have worked together for close to two months now. I´d like to think we´ve become friends. . .”

He looked at Clary, the girl´s big sincere eyes staring back at him intently. Alec liked Clary, as annoying and obnoxious as she could sometimes be, and even though no one could ever replace Izzy, it felt good to take care of her. Still, having friends was difficult in his predicament.

“Sorry, Clary,” he said. “I don´t have a Facebook, never did.”

“Oh. A phone number then, so I can text you? Maybe we could get lunch sometime. . .”

“I don´t have a phone either.” he lied. He did, in fact, have a burner phone that he only used to call Izzy.

“It´s the 21st century, James,” Clary said, surprised. “How can anyone not have a phone?”

Alec shrugged uncomfortably. He didn´t need Clary of all people, a girl he had to spend dozens of hours with weekly, to start prying into his life.

“I´m very busy outside work as it is. But, if it counts, I do think of us as friends.”

Clary smiled at that, a wide toothy grin that made her look even younger than she already did. Alec´s response seemed to please her.

“You´re an odd duck, James,” she said then, comfortable to drop the issue and forget about it.

Alec figured that he was, indeed, a very odd duck.

They took a cab home together, Alec stepping out five blocks before actually reaching his apartment and bid Clary goodnight, stupidly waving after the taxi as it sped off. He stood under the orange glow of the street lamp in the middle of Brooklyn, enjoying the early morning hush that had befallen the city and taking in a few breaths of cold air before heading towards his apartment.

There was a slight coating of snow on the streets and Alec stared at the ground as he walked home, a lit cigarette between his cold fingers. He felt childlike satisfaction as he made footprints on the fresh snow, disturbed only here and there by tiny pawprints or those coming from high-heeled boots, someone straggling in the early morning of New York City. Reeling just as he was.

When he finally reached his apartment, refusing to call it his home despite the circumstances, Alec had to apply a reasonable amount of force to his front door to get it open. The apartment was small and shabby, but Alec´s landlord was a nice elderly lady who didn´t ask for his firstborn son as payment and was probably born at a time when the town population was counted by carving notches into sticks, meaning she had no clue what a social security number even was.

He flicked on the lights, illuminating the small corridor that branched off to his bedroom/living room, the tiny kitchen and the bathroom. Overall, the whole place was probably even smaller than his room had been in the Upper East Side penthouse apartment that had been his family home since he could remember. His mother had constantly ordered renovations and decorated their home to keep it magazine-worthy, should any take interest in it.

Here, in the tiny matchbox of an apartment in Brooklyn, the lights flickered, the wallpaper was peeling, and there were patches of rust in the bathtub, but it was his. And, while he was hiding from the authorities that were no doubt on the lookout for him, he didn´t have to hide who he really was.

Alec threw his leather jacket to hang on the peg attached to the wall next to a mirror and toed off his boots before heading to the kitchen and tugging open the protesting door of his age-old fridge, fishing for a jug of milk and some leftover chinese from the day before. He sat heavily on the kitchen table, shovelling rice with the first spoon he could find and staring down on the linoleum floor, absently counting the squares in the pattern as he kicked his feet.

Having had his fill, Alec stashed the rest of the leftovers back in the fridge and took a quick shower, not even minding that the water never got above room temperature. He carefully took out his blue contact lenses that had already started to itch before heading to his bedroom with a towel wrapped around his hips.

Alec dressed quickly in some loose sweatpants and a semi-clean t-shirt that would keep him warm during his sleep, something that the thin blanket he owned couldn´t manage by itself. He ventured to the lone window, intending to close the blinds so he could have relative darkness in his room as the day got brighter. . . and stopped cold.

There was someone standing in the otherwise dead street, staring up at his apartment. It seemed to be a man, wearing a long black coat and dress pants, his hands hidden in the pockets.

The man abruptly pulled one of his hands free and checked the watch on his wrist before turning and heading down the street before disappearing from sight.

Alec swallowed against the unease curled in his stomach. Maybe the man was waiting for someone, as people were beginning to wake up and start their day. Maybe he had gotten a wrong address and arrived before Alec´s building completely by accident.

Sighing, Alec closed the blinds and dragged himself to bed, curling up under the thin blanket and willing his heart to stop beating out of his chest.

He hoped that there were more odd ducks in this city other than just him.


	3. Alexander Lightwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hi, hello! So this has been a LONG time coming and I do apologize for that but unfortunately, I kind of became uninspired for a long time when writing this story and I had a lot of stuff to do at university.
> 
> This chapter has a scene that mentions domestic violence in the form of verbal abuse against a minor. Both verbal and physical violence from Robert will also appear in future chapters. If you are sensitive to it, please take care while you read and inform me of any tags I should add.

The Q-division was situated in a heavily fortified steel and concrete contraption that was connected to the main building of MI6 by several glass tunnels. It wasn´t barricaded to keep anyone out more than to keep everything in as things tended to go wrong on a regular basis and small explosions were the norm.

Every time Magnus returned from a mission he was surprised to see the building still standing.

The upper floors were sectioned for labs that specialized in chemical and biological creations such as poisons, antidotes and tranquillizers. Magnus seldom ventured there, mildly put off by the glare of the overly bright light fixtures and white walls. Everything on that floor seemed delicate enough to be ruined just by breathing in their general direction. Even more delicate were the scientists working there, with their pupils blown by scary amounts of caffeine and moderately-sized sticks logged up their asses.

Just below the bio labs was the IT-cave, filled to the brim by scrawny men in PJs and bottles of Mountain Dew. During the day it was mostly quiet as all the nerds had probably been born with their biological clocks firmly set to the night time and tended to flock to their jungle of cables and blinking screens like a colony of oversized bats as soon as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. 

Magnus found out it was useful to have allies in the IT department when a series of compromising images were found on the internet by Ragnor who then proceeded to screech into his ear over the phone until he found someone to take them down for him. 

As it turned out, his boss didn´t appreciate one of his agents depicted as a drunken burlesque dancer with one hand firmly gripping a silver pole and another a coconut full of rum. 

Magnus wholly disagreed.

Nevertheless, he had made a slightly uneasy acquaintance with a guy named Jeff who had constantly trembling hands and never wore anything else but ratty jeans and a Monster T-shirt. Jeff had the photos removed between two blinks and had performed some sort of probably illegal magic that prevented them from surfacing ever again.

From then on, whenever Magnus visited the IT department he came bearing gifts, namely Hot Doritos and fizzy drinks. The visits had been few and far in between the last year as Magnus worked hard to earn back Ragnor´s trust, therefore acting like a sensible adult and as a consequence having a clean record, but he still ventured out to the IT cave from time to time just to make sure that Jeff was still breathing and brushing his teeth.

The workshops in the basement were a whole another part of the unholy trinity that made up the Q-division. Probably the unholiest of all as most of the engineers and scientists working there were secretly well-adjusted sociopaths with an intense imagination and low regard for human life. 

It wasn´t surprising that Magnus had friends there.

Maia Roberts was a young woman with intimidating intelligence and a knack for all things mechanical. She was the sole person Magnus trusted to take care of his guns and his car and to this day, none of the things Maia touched had failed him. She was snarky at best and downright mean at worst, knowing full well that she pretty much owned the place.

Simon Lewis was basically the polar opposite of Maia. He worked on smaller, quirkier gadgets that he pushed on Magnus with terrifying enthusiasm and, even though most of them worked brilliantly, a good half of them didn´t have any use so Magnus tended to stash them in the glove box of his car and forget about them.

Simon had, however, produced a modified Omega watch with a built-in garrote and a set of small poker-chip sized bombs that could reduce a car into rubble, both of which belonged to the list of essentials Magnus never went on a mission without. He was also the mastermind behind his well-loved ear cuff that acted as a communication device and looked stylish with every outfit.

“Hey, man!” Simon called over as soon as the lift doors opened and Magnus took a careful step to the engineering block.

“Hello, Smithers.” the agent greeted, expertly dodging the drowsy high-five aimed at him. While it was the norm for the scientists and engineers to clock in at the crack of dawn as they mostly nested in the apartment complex just down the road, Simon´s sleep schedule had apparently never gotten the memo. “I don´t have long. Where´s Maia?”

“Here!” the young woman hollered, waving from behind the hood of Magnus´ jet black Lamborghini Nero Nemesis. “Just checking up on your girl.”

“And how is she?” Magnus asked, smoothing a hand over the car´s roof. He had first bought it after breaking up with Camille as he succumbed to his fourth stage of grief and tried to help himself with some shopping therapy.

Now, two years later, he and his car were almost inseparable even though Magnus tried to rotate between the Lamborghini and MI6 cars as to not become predictable. 

“She´s purring like a kitten but you are burning out her tires too fast.” Maia gently closed the hood of the car, wiping his hands on the rag that hung from his right hip. “I updated the AI and added some fortifications to the back of the seats as you asked me to. Also, the car will now activate to your fingerprint but you should keep your keys just in case your hand gets ripped off or something.”

“Ah,” Magnus said dryly. “Noted.”

Maia smirked, clearly pleased with herself. “Too bad you can´t take her over to the Big Apple.” 

“Ugh, don´t tell me. I am quite certain Ragnor has hooked me up with a Ford or a Volvo just to irk me.”

“I heard it is an Audi,” Maia said with an ominous tone, smirking at the long-suffering sigh Magnus let out. “But, as you know I´m a great friend so I finished working on your guns early. Also, my birthday is in January and I expect to be kept in mind with a bottle of expensive whiskey.”

“I´ll keep that in mind,” Magnus agreed easily, following Maia through a narrow corridor that led to the shooting range used to test all kinds of firearms. There the young engineer showed him the augmentations done to his two handguns before sending him off to Simon´s small corner of oddities.

Half an hour later he finally stepped out of the Q-division and into the taxi waiting for him with both Maia´s and Simon´s firm warning of not repeating “that time” in Russia, accompanied with a threat of bodily harm, fresh in his mind.

Magnus barely remembered his time in Russia, having, instead of returning to London ASAP as Ragnor commanded, chosen to spend a night in Moscow, getting roaringly drunk with a police officer named Dima. That night Magnus learned all the Russian he would probably ever need, meaning that he and Dima decided to parrot obscenities at each other in increasingly loud voices until Magnus knew how to get stabbed in Russia by heart.

He might have, in a state of inebriated jubilation, agreed to marry a probable prostitute with the worst bleaching job he had ever seen, giving her his signet ring with a built-in communication device as an engagement ring.

Which she had accidentally turned on while they enthusiastically celebrated their new commitment and left it that way until the thing ran out of battery.

Needless to say, Magnus´ handler was scarred for life.

The taxi arrived at the Stapleford Aerodrome promptly at 8 AM and Magnus was swiftly hurried to his seat in the private plane. Knowing that the flight would be long and boring, Magnus politely declined the cup of coffee offered to him by the flight assistant and instead chose to take a nap for the first few hours before groggily opening his laptop and reviewing all the information Jeff had managed to dig up on one Alexander Lightwood.

Jeff had really come through.

There were hundreds of photos, videos and files he had gathered from the social media accounts of his siblings and college acquaintances as well as both his school and the US governments databases.

Alexander looking miserably bored in class. Pink-cheeked and smiley at a dorm party. In the middle of a heated argument in front of a bar, his finger accusingly pressed in some other guys chest as he protectively stood in front of a clearly drunk girl while the couple the picture was actually taken of smiled in the forefront unknowingly. The next photo depicting Alexander´s fist connecting with the guys face.

There were also photos of Alexander growing up - baby pictures of a grinning toddler and high-school yearbook photos of a serious-faced young man, pale and gaunt. Even a prom photo with Alexander´s arm around a beautiful girl, an uncomfortable smile on his face.

Magnus took time going through the videos provided, memorizing the tone of his targets voice which was pleasantly deep. He noted that Alexander spoke with a Brooklyn accent common for most New Yorkers, dropping the “r” before a consonant, elongating the vowels and sometimes ending his questions with a “yeah?” or a “huh?”. He spoke swiftly, confidently, bringing his whole body into his speech as he tried to make a point.

He lingered on a home video of a younger Alexander, perhaps around the age of ten, sitting behind a grand piano in a sunny room with his sister next to him on the bench, his fingers elegantly moving over the ivory keys as a woman Magnus recognized from the photos as Maryse Lightwood swayed in the background, absently organizing white lilies in a vase.

The video, that had started out as an idyllic scene from the life of the Lightwood family changed abruptly with the camera shaking as a door was slammed open somewhere out of the view and a sharp “Alec! I´m working! Would you quit that fucking clanking!” yelled out by a male voice.

His heart ached as he watched the boy´s fingers flinch from the keys as if burnt, his wide, scared eyes turning towards the camera and then to his sister who had burrowed under his arm in fear.

“Jace, what are you doing with that camera?” Maryse asked hushedly just before the video ended.

Magnus swallowed against the clump in his throat, the phantom taste of blood vile in his mouth as memories of his own less than cheerful childhood resurfaced, brought on by a loud voice spewing heartless words and a pair of incredibly sad eyes.

His mood having soured, Magnus moved on to written word, noting Alexander´s sloppy and hurried handwriting as he had rushed to finish a high-school essay, his wording surprisingly artistic and well articulated as he expressed his love for George Orwell´s works and reading through the countless, sometimes nonsensical, tweets that he had posted before his account had suspiciously been closed around the time of his disappearance.

Alexander Lightwood, in all aspects, seemed to be a well-rounded, witty and sometimes awkward (if not quirky) young man, sophisticated in his talents. 

There were also signs of timidity and desolation in the man´s character, noticeable from the way he tended to shy away from attention, fading to the background in photos and trying to make himself less noticeable by wearing reservedly dark and plain clothes. Visible in how he sometimes hugged his body or rubbed his hands in a self-comforting gesture and also in the way he seemed to sympathize with the novel “1984”, with the depressing bleakness and the constant feeling of repression, of being watched and judged.

The way he identified with the idea of “thoughtcrime”, both screaming out and hiding the truth that he himself had unacceptable thoughts. Trying to reach out, perhaps come clean, and yet again retreating in fear.

Magnus closed his laptop and leaned back in his seat as the plane finally started its descent, the glittering skyscrapers of New York steadily becoming clearer as he aimlessly stared out of the small window, a feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

There was clearly something wrong with the Lightwood family. Something that might have caused Alexander to run and hide from those he loved most, to by his own will become an “unperson”.

Something that made Magnus hesitant to find him.


End file.
